They started. They drove through the town, and then round the long curve of the bay, winding inland to cross a river and then back to the coast with its hundreds of little sandy coves. And then they began to climb. In and out, round nerve-shattering curves, upward, ever upward on the tortuous winding road. The blue bay was far below them and, on the other side of it, Ajaccio sparkled in the sun, white like a fairy city.
In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then the other. Mr. Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.
It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr. Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under his chin.
It was very cold. Across the water Ajaccio was still bathed in sunlight, but up here thick gray clouds came drifting across the face of the sun. Mr. Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.
Ahead of them Naomi's little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up, still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp, like a knife.
Suddenly Naomi's car stopped, and she looked back.
"We've arrived," she said. "At the world's end. And I don't think it's an awfully good day for it."
They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, half a dozen stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high: _Coti Chiaveeri_.
Naomi shrugged her shoulders. "That's its official name, but I prefer to call it the world's end."
She walked on a few steps, and Mr. Satterthwaite joined her. They were beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the white ribbon of the road, in front of them--nothing. Only far, far below, the sea.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet--anyone--"
He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder, his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have sprung from the surrounding landscape.
"I wonder--" began Mr. Satterthwaite.
But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr. Satterthwaite saw his face.
"Why, Mr. Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton-Smith, I want to introduce my friend Mr. Quin to you. He's the most amazing fellow. You are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time--"
He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.
Naomi had shaken hands with Mr. Quin in her usual abrupt style. "We're here for a picnic," she said. "And it seems to me we shall be pretty well frozen to the bone."
Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly. "We shall find a sheltered spot?"
"Which this isn't," agreed Naomi. "Still, it's worth seeing, isn't it?"
"Yes, indeed." Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. "Miss Carlton-Smith calls this place the world's end. Rather a good name, eh?"
Mr. Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes--a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like that--a place where one can't go on any longer."
"What do you mean?" asked Naomi sharply.
He turned to her. "Well, usually there's a choice, isn't there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here--there's the road behind you, and in front of you--nothing."
Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps toward the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr. Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.
"Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton-Smith?"
"Yes."
"You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and--over the edge--down--down--down. It would be--very easily done."
They had joined the others. Mr. Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.
"Who is he?" she demanded fiercely.
Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment. "Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now--we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually--"
He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.
"He knows things," she said. "He knows things. How does he know?"
Mr. Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.
"I'm afraid," she muttered.
"Afraid of Mr. Quin?"
"I'm afraid of his eyes. He sees things."
Something cold and wet fell on Mr. Satterthwaite's cheek. He looked up.
"Why, it's snowing," he exclaimed in great surprise.
"A nice day to have chosen for a picnic," said Naomi.
She had regained control of herself with an effort.
What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down fast and thick. Mr. Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede toward it.
"You have your provisions," said Mr. Quin, "and they will probably be able to make you some coffee."
It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little toward lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.
Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the scene to Mr. Satterthwaite's eye; there was something even more unreal about the people.
The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess--that is, she looked like the popular conception of a duchess. She was the ideal stage _grande dame_. Her aristocratic head was held high, her exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in gray--soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with _pâté de foie gras_. On her right was a man with a very white face, very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvelously and beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his left arm was thrown out, as though he were about to declaim something.
On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.
There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the authentic Duchess) took charge.
"Isn't this storm too dreadful," she said pleasantly, coming forward, and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very useful when serving on welfare and other committees. "I suppose you've been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvelous place. I only arrived this morning."
The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious smile slipped into his seat.
The white-haired lady spoke. "We have been here a week," she said.
Mr. Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with emotion--with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from her heart.
He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr. Tomlinson. "The man in spectacles is Mr. Vyse--the producer, you know."
The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr. Vyse with a good deal of dislike.
"What does he produce?" he asked. "Children?"
"Oh! dear me, no," said Mr. Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention of anything so crude in connection with Mr. Vyse. "Plays."
"I think," said Naomi, "I'll go out again. It's too hot in here."
Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr. Satterthwaite jump. She made, almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr. Tomlinson aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr. Quin, and he barred her way.
"Go back and sit down," he said.
His voice was authoritative. To Mr. Satterthwaite's surprise, the girl hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the table as far from the others as possible.
Mr. Satterthwaite bustled forward and buttonholed the producer. "You may not remember me," he began. "My name is Satterthwaite."
"Of course!" A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other's in a painful grip. "My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, of course?"
Mr. Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful, emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England's greatest emotional actress. Mr. Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for interpreting a part--for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.